


Foreign Lands.

by Jackmerlin



Category: The Marlows - Antonia Forest
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:33:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackmerlin/pseuds/Jackmerlin
Summary: Prompt:In Falconer's Lure Wendy and Oliver Reynolds seem to have walked in out of a rather different novel, with the ten ponies that it seems to be their jobs to show off so her father can sell them, and her mother making her do piano and elocution which she's bad at. Any expansion beyond the glimpses we get would be greatly appreciated. Bonus Patrick (who seems to know them quite well) appreciated but not required.





	Foreign Lands.

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [antonia_forest_fanworks_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/antonia_forest_fanworks_2018) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> In Falconer's Lure Wendy and Oliver Reynolds seem to have walked in out of a rather different novel, with the ten ponies that it seems to be their jobs to show off so her father can sell them, and her mother making her do piano and elocution which she's bad at. Any expansion beyond the glimpses we get would be greatly appreciated. Bonus Patrick (who seems to know them quite well) appreciated but not required.

“H-hi, Patrick,” said Oliver.  
The older boy nodded at them as he rode past. “Morning, Ollie,” he replied, pleasantly enough. His eyes had already drifted past Wendy. She was used to it. She wasn’t the sort of girl boys bothered noticing much, especially not boys like Patrick Merrick on his smart new pony.  
“He must be back to normal.” said Oliver, chattering happily, as he did when he was relaxed. “If he’s allowed to jump again. I like his new horse, don’t you? I wonder what Buster’s doing?”  
“Still got him at home, I expect,” said Wendy. “He’s too old to sell, and they won’t have to anyway.” She pushed her own pony into a trot, aware of her father standing behind the rope of the collecting ring, talking to possible buyers. He waved an expansive hand towards Wendy’s mount as she cantered past.  
Toffee was the sort of pony who could sell himself. No great beauty, he was short and stocky, but above his broad Roman nose shone a pair of the kindest, calmest eyes. He was the type of pony she would once have wanted to keep for herself, to take on all-day picnic rides or swim bareback at the beach - the sorts of things other people did on their own ponies.  
She was showing him in the First Ridden Pony class; he walked, trotted and cantered when told, enduring the apparent pointlessness of it all with good-natured honesty.  
He wasn’t placed; his stride too short, his face too plain to win ribbons in showing classes, but he had behaved impeccably. Her father waited outside the ring, with a man and a girl about her own age.  
“Now this would be a perfect first pony for you,” Mr Reynolds was telling them. “You can do anything with him, ride him down the main road and he won’t bat an eye. You could let a baby sit on him…”  
The man and his daughter looked him over without enthusiasm, “Janet’s looking for something she’ll be able to win on,” said the father. “Maybe show-jump.”  
“You’ll be interested in one of the others we’ve brought today then,” said Mr Reynolds, undeterred. “Wendy’s riding him in the next class. He’s a real looker, take the light out of your eyes, he will.”

The ‘real looker’ went by the unlikely name of Lorenzo, a dark bay pony who’d already won the Show Hunter class that day. Wendy got him ready for the show-jumping while her father pointed out his pretty head, perfect conformation and floating movement.  
Wendy wasn’t fond of Lorenzo. Having been ridden once already, the freshness had been taken off him, and he popped the warm-up jumps calmly and neatly. But she knew he was flaky, hot and nervy. He might jump round beautifully, but he might equally be spooked by some imaginary nothing and nap, run out or stop.  
Aware of potential customers watching, she kept him collected and bouncy between hand and heel, jumping accurately around the first half of the course. But he saw ghosts under the big upright at the far side of the ring and slammed to a sudden halt. If she hadn’t been used to ponies like him, she’d have flown over his ears.  
This wasn’t good. She could probably get away with one stop, but if he refused the fence a second time with would-be buyers watching it would be very bad. A third time - meaning elimination - would be fatal.  
She turned away to come again. Lorenzo flicked his ears back. Sensing her anger and determination but still not liking the look of the fence, he threw his head up, jibbing and balking and trying to go sideways. But her fear of failure was greater than his. She drove him ahead of her legs, her hands a vice keeping him straight; at the last stride she raised her crop and hit him with a icy force that sent him over the fence and clear round the rest of the course.

 As far as horse dealers went, Jack Reynolds had a reputation for being honest. He didn’t go in for any of the tricks that made a sharp pony appear quiet. But he had a living to make, and there was only so far he was prepared to go to protect people from their own stupidity.  
“That was just a green mistake the pony made there,” he was telling the father and daughter. “Wendy brought him in a bit tight and he didn’t have time to see the fence. Still, kids make mistakes sometimes, same as ponies, eh?”  
Wendy, who knew that she’d approached the fence on a perfect straight line, said nothing, and concentrated on unbuckling the girth straps.  
“Come over tomorrow and have a sit on him for yourself,” Jack continued. “You can try him over anything you like.”

The following Monday, the first proper day of the summer holidays, they came to try Lorenzo. Jumping round the fences at home, that he’d been over a dozen times before, the pony didn’t put a foot wrong. The daughter professed herself delighted, the father - wincing slightly - wrote a cheque.  
Expansive with the good humour that followed a successful sale, Jack slipped Oliver and Wendy a handful of coins. “Have an afternoon off. Go to the pictures or something.”  
“Wendy ought to do some piano practice,” intervened Mrs Reynolds. “There’s the Colebridge Festival coming up. I thought maybe Under Fourteen Piano, and Elocution.”  
Jack considered any competition not involving a horse to be a waste of time, but generally thought it best to let his wife have her head in these matters. He disappeared into his office with a pile of sales catalogues, leaving Wendy to her mother’s devices.  
“We can get these forms filled in and sent off anyway,” said Wendy’s mother. “There’s a set poem in the Elocution, and you have a free choice for the second one.”  
Her mother had an Anthology ready on the kitchen table; Wendy could see her free afternoon about to disappear. “How about the daffodil one?” she said hastily.  
“‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’,” said her mother, in her special poetry reciting voice. “Why that one?”  
Because she’d already had to learn it as a homework task for school, was the real answer, but Wendy knew better than to admit that. “Because daffodils are my favourite flower,” she suggested, the sort of sweetly pretty answer that would please her mother.

 

Toffee went a week or so later. Edith Hadley, who ran the riding school, brought a family with three children to see him. They’d all been having riding lessons with her and were desperately keen. The children fought with each other over who was going to untack Toffee, brush him over and feed him sugar lumps. Clearly he was going to be adored and treasured; feeling indulgent Wendy answered even their daftest questions kindly. She showed them the special place at the base of his mane where he liked to be rubbed, scratching hard in small circles. “His nose has gone all wobbly,” said the smallest child, and the other two giggled helplessly as Toffee elongated and wriggled his nose with pleasure.  
Cheque written and transport arranged for the next day, the family left, all still talking over each other in their excitement. Edith came into the kitchen for a little something by way of thanks.  
Conversation over coffee drifted to village gossip. Jon Marlow over at Westbridge had crashed his plane and a family from London were coming to take over the big house.  
“Apparently there’s about ten of them,” said Edith. “Be handy for you if they all want ponies, won’t it?. I’ll put some feelers out. It’s an ill wind and all that…”

 

They had to start early on the day of the Elocution Comp, to do the mucking out before Wendy left. Oliver grumbled mildly at having to get up early too.  
“It’s alright for _you_ ,” she snapped, after he’d pointed out how much he was going to have left to do after she’d gone. “No-one’s ever going to try and make _you_ recite poetry.” Which she knew was a mean thing to say. She mucked out two boxes in extra quick time, sped by stifled rage; then wheeling her barrow to the muck heap at the same time as Ollie emptied his, she offered to do one of his boxes by way of apology.  
She had a hurried breakfast in the kitchen then her mother started preparing her - just as they prepared the show ponies, but to much worse effect, thought Wendy gloomily. Sighing over her dirty fingernails, her mother took her to the sink and scrubbed at them with the nail brush until Wendy was sure she’d lost a layer of skin. Then her hair was unkindly tidied, her mother combing through tangles far more roughly than Wendy would ever brush a pony’s tail, but then a pony in the same situation could at least _kick_. The finished plait was so tight that her scalp felt stretched and tingly. Finally her mother produced the dress she was supposed to wear, a truly hideous frilly thing.  
“Can’t I just wear my school skirt and blouse?” she suggested.  
“Don’t talk nonsense. It won’t hurt you to wear a pretty dress for once.”  
There was a minor panic when they realised that her ‘party’ shoes no longer fit, and she had to wear her school shoes after all. Her mother seemed to regard it as Wendy’s own fault that she had grown a shoe size unexpectedly since she’d last shoved the party shoes into the bottom of her wardrobe. “I’m sure you noticed when you needed new _riding_ boots,” she said pointedly.  
So they left the house with her mother in a huff which didn’t wear off until they’d parked the car in a quiet side road, and walked the short distance to the Methodist Church Hall. Outside the hall was a waiting huddle of gossiping mothers and nervously excited children. Wendy felt her heart rapidly sinking into the soles of the clumpy ‘sensible’ shoes and wished there really was a friendly cherry tree that she could climb into and hide for the day.

She noticed several faces she knew as the room filled. Elsie and Pauline were in her class at school; they were good at this sort of thing and one of them would probably win. And when she came bottom, they would be bound to remember and find a way to be sweetly nasty about it at school.  
‘Number One’ …. ‘Seven’ ……’Twelve’……’Nineteen’ …. Her mother nudged her, repeating whispered advice… act ‘ _amazed_ ’ and ‘ _full of wonder_ ’ …. The moment was upon her. All she could do was get up onto the stage and get it over with.

Relieved that at least she hadn’t got any words muddled up, she scurried with her head down back to her seat. She was too busy thinking about getting home and taking whichever pony still needed exercising for a really long ride, somewhere on her own, far away from other people, to notice the next competitor being called and climbing the steps to the stage. At first she wasn’t even listening. Then the first titters broke out behind her. Someone laughed out loud, then pretended they’d been coughing.

The _beast._ The absolute _beast_. The beast the beast the beast the beast the _beast._

Oliver and her father were just finishing lunch at the kitchen table.  
“Did you win?” asked her father, although he knew perfectly well that she never did. Not knowing what to say, she shoved past Ollie to get through the kitchen and upstairs to change. She supposed her mother would tell them the full story of her humiliation.  
She wasn’t to know that her mother, at just as much of a loss, said only, “Oh, she did rather well, considering.”

 

She was, on the whole, more glad than sad when the summer holidays came to an end. The stable staff who worked the hunting and point-to-point season for Jack had returned from their holiday - unpaid leave they were given every summer while the children were off school. So on the morning of the Colebridge Festival Annual Gymkhana and Horse-Show, she and Oliver had less of an early start than usual, having only their ponies to plait and prepare. Not having to muck out gave the day something of a holiday feel, and the ponies she had to ride at the show were a nice lot - so she was bound to do well.  
“ _Buster’s_ here!” said Oliver, returning from the Secretary’s tent.  
“With Patrick?”  
“No. There’s a girl riding him. He’s looking jolly fit though.” Oliver flicked through the programme. “It says N. Marlow here. That’s one of the lot who’ve got Trennels now.”  
“Lucky her,” said Wendy, but without the fierce envy she’d have felt three winters past, when Buster had been regarded as a dream pony by everyone who’d seen him out hunting. She got on with tacking up her first ride.  
It was only as she walked her pony towards the collecting ring that the day turned sour. She saw Buster’s familiar face first, and then she saw who was riding him.

With a slow realisation it struck her why that disdainful face looked so snubbing. N. Marlow didn’t even _recognise_ her. She’d had her fun imitating her at the elocution comp, and then not even remembered what she’d _done_. And here she was, the smug, mocking bitch, best friends with Patrick Merrick obviously, if he was lending her Buster, and swanning about as if she owned the place. Well, she wasn’t going to be able to lord it over Wendy _here_ \- and Wendy was going to make sure that the stuck-up cow couldn’t sneer at her today.

She didn’t get her chance till the gymkhana races. Her pony, an experienced games pony, flicked his ears back in irritation as she steered him wide in order to bump Buster accidentally-on-purpose, but she succeeded in making them hit their pole and be disqualified.  
At the start of the next race, Wendy again lined up next to the blonde girl, half expecting her to say something. But the girl blanked her completely, with the same calm, superior lack of expression. They were side by side at the apple bowl; as they both remounted their ponies, Wendy hissed “ _Wasp!”_ That had got her - she’d dropped it.  
Wendy was sure the girl would _have_ to say something now, and spoiling for a chance to have an argument she rehearsed all the angry things she was going to say, starting with ‘You’re not so funny now, are you?’ and ending with ‘Pity you can’t ride as well as you think you can copy me’. But the girl only rode away and found a place for the next race at the other end of the line.  
Distracted and unsettled, she made stupid mistakes herself in the costume race, forgetting to tuck the shirt in, and getting disqualified after she thought she’d won. Then it was the musical poles. She rode into a place close behind Buster, but at the last moment his rider moved him around the ring. Seething, Wendy wound her pony up at the canter, until by the time the music stopped he was going like a rocket.  
She knew she’d gone too far even as they galloped towards the girl, but set alight by the fury in her drumming heels, her pony wasn’t stopping now. They hit Buster on a moment of suspension, so that he was knocked further off balance than she’d intended. He stumbled badly, was almost on his knees, and the girl was tumbling over his head, ending up finally on the ground beneath her feet.

Buster ….. With his first step she could see that he was lame. Anger decamped, leaving her cold, raw and horrified.  
The musical poles continued. She was out after two more turns, relieved to be able to leave the ring.  
Buster - the most famous pony in the County. How could she have been so hateful. She refused to let herself relive the marvelous sight of that awful girl rolling on the floor, her face rubbed in the dirt. Because that image was overlaid with the knowledge that now _she_ was the mean one, and always would be, for as long as anyone remembered.

Oliver lasted longer in the Musical Poles. Waiting near the collecting ring she saw him waylaid, firstly by Patrick, then some random small boys. Beyond him, Patrick and the blonde girl studying Buster’s leg. Two blonde girls. Oh God. Where had that _second_ one come from?  
“P-P-Patrick said you ch-ch-cheated!”  
She’d never seen easy-going Ollie so red-faced and flustered. He could barely speak, but was still trying to get the words out. “You h-h-hurt B-b-buster…”  
“It was an accident,” she lied half-heartedly.  
Oliver stared at her with hating eyes. Before he could try and say anything else, a cool voice behind said, “Excuse me.”  
She swung round. The second blonde girl, not wearing riding clothes, blue eyes glinting.  
“ _Up_ into the _cherry_ tree  
Who should climb but little _me_ ….”  
“I have to go and get ready,” said Wendy desperately, but the girl stood in front of her and carried on. Every hateful syllable, exactly as she’d said it at the competition. None of the things Wendy wished for happened. Her pony stood docile, instead of swinging round and stamping on the horrible girl’s foot. No interfering adult chivvied them out of the way. No hole in the ground opened and swallowed her up.  
Eventually however it was over. The girl smirked at her, then turned and strolled back to the rest of the blonde family. Oliver said nothing, but he was looking at her oddly.  
She tugged at her reluctant pony’s reins. They had very little time to take their gymkhana ponies back to the horsebox and swap them for the next two.  
“We’ll have to give her the prize money,” Ollie said, as they rode their show-jumpers back to the collecting ring. He wasn’t stammering any more.  
“We can’t! What will we tell Dad?”  
“You mean what will _you_ tell Dad? Look, I don’t care what the girl did, but that was Buster. He would have won if you hadn’t cheated. He’s Patrick’s pony.”  
“They might not have won everything,” she said, sulkily. “She can’t ride much.”  
“She’s friends with Patrick,” he said hotly. “I’m not letting them think we cheat.”

 

She cantered Sixpence in steady circles at the furthest end of the warm-up area from Oliver. It was useless to try and tell him that she hadn’t been trying to _cheat,_ at least, not the way he thought.  
Maybe he had a point about the money. Sixpence was an excitable pony, but a terrific jumper when she could be kept calm. The prize-money for the show- jumping was good; if she could win it, then the gymkhana winnings wouldn’t matter so much.  
She jumped a clear first round.But feeling anxious in the jump-off, she misjudged the stride into the big treble. Sixpence, flustered by having to stretch for the first part, threw up her head and jumped fast and flat, dropping her hind-legs into the last fence and sending the poles clattering.. So that meant she ended up in fourth place.Oliver, even more off form than she was, came nowhere.

They watched the Open Jumping in an uneasy silence. When it looked as if Patrick was going to win, she said, “Patrick’s doing well on that new pony, isn’t he?” But her voice came out sounding too high and bright even to herself, and Oliver just hunched a shoulder, still ignoring her.  
She badly wanted to cry. Instead she pulled the prize envelopes roughly out of her jacket pocket and ripped them open. Oliver looked at her at last. She tipped the money into his outstretched hand.  
“Go on then.”  
“Are you going to come?”  
She shook her head, and he walked away.  
She didn’t try and stop him. All she could do was try not to look as if she was obviously watching what happened, and wonder, in a rather dreary way, what her father was going to say.


End file.
